


Like Celery Stalks

by voleuse



Category: Battlestar Galactica
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-15
Updated: 2006-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-04 07:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>So I say Live, and turn my shadow three times round</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Celery Stalks

**Author's Note:**

> No spoilers. Title and summary adapted from Anne Sexton's _Live_.

_Laura is standing on the surface of Kobol again. It's night, and the moonlight falls around her like rain, casting shadows through the air._

_She shivers in the air, and peers through the trees. There's a glimmer of light, something she can't quite make out._

_She steps forward, and forward again. The ground is wet, it squelches between her bare toes. _

_She is cold. _

_Someone is whispering, but she can't tell whether it's a man or a woman. The words echo._

_She steps forward, and forward again._

_The light grows brighter, warmer, and she's reaching out, reaching out. The rain thins and the cold dissipates. _

_And then standing before her is Kara Thrace, head bowed. In her hands is that golden arrow, and Laura touches it, presses it between her hands and Kara's._

_Heat flashes through her like a thousand waves, and Laura looks up just as Kara's lips press against hers._

*

 

She wakes with a fierce trembling, and reaches blindly to the small bedstand next to her bunk. She manages to catch the bottle of chamalla pills on her second try, and she swallows four pills dry.

Doctor Cottle has looked askance at her reliance on the pills, but the increasing frequency of her visions are small price to pay to avoid quaking limbs, lightning migraines, occasional vomiting, and fainting spells.

She sits up, leans her forehead against her knees. Already her trembling is beginnning to slow, and she breathes out in even measures.

_This isn't the way_, the voice tells her, the voice from her dream.

Laura starts, looks up, but she doesn't see anyone in the room.

_This isn't the way to live_, the voice says again.

She presses her eyes together, and it's then she sees a flash of blond hair, and a rip of a grin.

She counts to two hundred and twelve, and decides to sleep again.

*

 

In the morning, Captain Apollo is the first in to see her, walking in ahead of her breakfast.

He sits on the mattress next to her, and Laura doesn't think of impropriety. Instead, she grasps his hand in hers, and is thankful for the warmth of him.

She asks him about official business, but he shakes his head, looks at her closely.

"How are you sleeping?" he asks, his voice hushed.

Laura turns her head to the door, gives him a perfect smile. "I'm absolutely fine," she tells him.

His gaze is familiar, comfortable, and when she looks back to him, his expression is sad.

He opens his mouth, then stops. Tries again. "I wish--"

She puts a quick finger to his lips, shakes her head. "It's not necessary, Captain."

At his title, he straightens, pulls away.

"Whatever you say, Madam President."

She folds her hands together, and calls for her tea.

*

 

During a foray to the _Galactica_, she discovers seventeen unscheduled minutes in her agenda. She considers a quick nap, but dismisses the idea out of hand.

Instead, she makes her way to the hangar bay, a Marine escort trailing discreetly behind her.

She's been on the floor itself, so she opts to climb to the catwalk above, surveys the bustle of activity. There's a group clustered around a Viper, missing its wing, and each intact Viper has one or two crewmen inspecting it.

At the far corner of the deck, she spots a three pilots. They're arguing about something, loudly, but those nearby are ignoring them.

"They're just blowing off steam," Thrace says beside her.

Laura holds back her gasp, keeps her attention on the group. "They're the newer pilots, correct?"

"The nuggets, yeah," Thrace replies, and she leans on the railing next to Laura. She's in tanks and sweats, and her dogtags clink against the metal bars. "They don't get a lot of time off."

Laura turns her head, notes the expression in Thrace's eyes. "You must be very close to them."

Thrace laughs, shakes her head. "I train them. I try to keep them alive, in the air."

"But?" Laura braces her hands on the railing, leans closer to Thrace.

"But always on the clock, never getting any breaks? Any rest?" Thrace closes the gap, and the fringe of her hair almost brushes Laura's arm. "This isn't the way to live."

Laura sways, and Thrace grabs her elbow, steadies her.

"Madam President?" she asks, and Laura almost laughs. "Are you all right?"

Laura looks at her, at the smudge of grease on her jaw, at her slightly-chapped lips.

"I'm fine," she murmurs, but Thrace doesn't look like she's buying it.

*

 

After that, Laura finds it easier to talk to her, in longer intervals, without the punctations of "Madam President" or "Lieutenant" or "Adama."

There are details about the fleet, about living eternally in space, that Thrace knows, and shares, more comprehensively than anyone else Laura has met. It's a haphazard collection of knowledge, know-how, and supposition, but Laura finds it enlightening, clarifying.

There are other things Thrace notices, as well, things Laura's found have never been addressed by others, not even Apollo.

She doesn't stare, nor does she sneer, when Laura makes a reference to the scriptures.

When she visits Colonial One, she'll sometimes bring a packet of honey, or a bottle of conditioner, and slip it into Laura's hand. (Everyone assumes she has access to luxuries, Laura has noticed, but no one actually provides them for her.)

And on the days after lengthy press conferences, she smile at Laura, and asks how her feet feel.

*

 

A contingent from Aerelon circulates a petition throughout the fleet.

They are, to say the least, quite uncomplimentary towards Laura.

She doesn't mind so much, having been accused of more unsavory things while she was Secretary of Education. As President, disparaging remarks about her stance on the press are par for the course.

Soon after, however, one of her assistants notifies her of call on a secure channel. She expects it to be Bill, indignant and incensed.

It's Apollo, and when she hears his voice, she only just manages to quell the smile from blossoming across her face.

"They're wrong about you," he says, and it's almost a growl.

She laughs. "They're wrong about a lot of things."

There's a moment of silence, and she listens to the quiet rhythm of his breathing, presses the earpiece closer to her skin.

"When can I," he starts, then pauses. "When do you think?" He leaves out the last half of the question, but she understands.

"Soon," she promises, knowing it vague.

"Soon," he sighs, and ends the call.

She holds on the line a moment longer before she returns to her work.

*

 

When next the Quorum meets, Laura ends the day having a drink with Thrace in her assigned quarters. She'd seen Apollo from across the room, but when she'd left, he was still cornered by a reporter from Leonis.

So she splits a bottle of ambrosia with Thrace, and kicks her shoes under her bed.

"Do you know," she muses aloud, "what the best thing about these conferences is?"

Thrace licks the rim of her glass, widens her eyes in question.

"A real bed, with a real mattress," Laura says as she reclines on the bed. "With a real comforter, and real pillows."

Thrace laughs and, unexpectedly, flops next to Laura on the mattress. "As grateful as I am to have a bunk, there are some things you need actual beds for."

"Really?" Laura props herself on one elbow and eyes Thrace, then gives in to the pull of entendre. "Such as?" She raises her eyebrows, and feels supremely silly.

Thrace rolls on her side, faces Laura, and for a moment, she looks completely serious.

Then, she grins, a startling flash of teeth, and her tongue flicks to the corner of her mouth.

Laura can't look away. Instead, she closes her eyes, and when Thrace leans in, presses their lips together, Laura meets her halfway.

When they break apart, finally, Laura's blouse is halfway unbuttoned, and her hands are tucked inside Thrace's waistband.

"Madam President," Thrace mutters, punctuating the words with a darting kiss.

"Yes?" Laura asks, and she thinks she sounds exactly how she feels.

"You can call me Kara," she says. "Considering."

Laura pulls away, just barely, and assumes her presidential smile. "Considering?"

And they both burst into giggles.

*

 

Countless minutes and half a bottle of ambrosia later, they're much less clothed and much more breathless.

Kara ducks her head, licks a stripe across Laura's collarbone, and her hand strokes up her leg, and Laura gasps and rolls her hips.

She reaches out, cups one of Kara's breasts in her hand, and smirks when Kara arches against her. She rolls Kara's nipple with her thumb, and Kara twists her fingers, plunges deeper.

Laura moans, throws her head back, and gold shimmers behind her eyelids.

When she opens her eyes again, she gasps, because Apollo is standing in the doorway.

Kara notices her surprise, turns her head and freezes. "Hey, Lee," she says, and it almost sounds casual.

His hands are braced against the frame of the door, and he seems more puzzled than anything else.

Laura closes her eyes, considers the myriad possibilities before her.

Everything leads to loss, and she's tired of that answer.

She chooses something else entirely.

She rises to sit, and Kara rises with her. The blanket is pushed to the foot of the bed; they are completely bare.

Apollo watches them, his face carefully blank.

Laura holds out her hand, feels Kara's breath catch.

And he smiles.


End file.
